


Complete Control

by DM (altilis)



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-01
Updated: 2009-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altilis/pseuds/DM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kristoph has other means of getting to his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complete Control

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Phoenix Wright kink meme.

Kristoph had everything under control. Wright was snug under his thumb along with that bratty little girl. Brushel was too stupid to know or do anything incriminating. Zak Gramarye was—too smart to come out of whatever rat-hole he was hiding in, which left only one loose end that was hardly a loose end at all: Klavier.

He knew the young man was too busy gallivanting across the world with that silly band to really care about the specifics of his first American case. In fact, he was sure that Klavier trusted him enough to not even look back at the “hints” he had given him.

But he wasn’t sure. As much as he had groomed him, as much as Klavier strived to live up to his very shadow (and never had or would succeed), he was growing up and out of his reach. He couldn’t allow that.

\---

Kristoph roped his younger brother closer and closer when he could. He would help him with his stranger cases, one arm slung around his shoulders and leaning in to murmur in his ear sweet hints that only come from experience. Upon victory of those very same cases, he would take him to dinner before his bandmates had a chance to drag him to some seedy pub and he would mention in a low and cool tone, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I’m very proud of you, Klavier.”

As Klavier got older and the band experienced rifts in personalities, Kristoph slithered between Klavier and his band like a coy python, slowly entwining his brother in his coils. One night he heard shouts from his brother’s bedroom—

“YOU BASTARD! GO AHEAD, RUN BACK TO L.A. YOU F—!”

\--the slam of the phone receiver on the desk, and a vase shatter against an opposing wall. Kristoph let himself in unannounced and encircled his arms around Klavier, cooling his anger with whispers in his ear, “You can never expect him to understand you, like me.” He led him back to bed and coaxed him into a calm sleep, but did nothing else than smooth his blond hair and predict when his next plan of attack would be. Young twenty-somethings were easy to predict, and for all his legal genius, Klavier was just as hot-blooded as the rest of them.

\---

The next happenstance occurred over a year after the first, after Klavier had ambitiously tried to down too many vodka shots at the goading of one of his closest bandmates. While it might have been fun and games at the time, an American celebration of his twenty-first after a successful show in Berlin (despite the fact that Klavier had been drinking wine for years now), Kristoph was the one who had to help nurse his carelessly-earned hangover—and his stirring sense of betrayal.

“He was trying to kill me,” Klavier sulked, eyes shut tight to the light of the lounge room, sprawled across the couch with his head in his older brother’s lap. Kristoph balanced one sizable ice-pouch to Klavier’s forehead, while he held Machiavelli’s Der Fürst (The Prince) poised in the other hand.

“He might have,” Kristoph agreed without so much as a hesitation; it made Klavier pause, frown. He opened his eyes to look up at his brother’s calm expression.

“What?”

“Don’t be so daft, Klavier,” Kristoph layered his voice with light hints of disapproval, causing Klavier to focus even more intently on his words. “You have been in court for more than a few years now. Why is it that man harms his fellow man?”

“Money, love, jealousy…but this has nothing to do with that,” Klavier pointed out, twisting one of his rings idly around his thumb. He paused again as he heard his brother chuckle. “What now?”

“Do you so blindly trust this man that you won’t question his intentions, even as obvious as they are? Come now, you should see that this has everything to do with money, love, and jealousy, and he is just waiting for the most opportune moment to usurp all of your fame.”

“You don’t really think—”

“Of course I do, Klavier,” Only now did Kristoph move his eyes from the text of the book, to look down into his eyes so much like his own, but wide and bright with inexperience and youth. “I worry about you, especially among those friends of yours,” He lifted his hand from the ice-pouch to grace one ice-cold fingertip down Klavier’s cheek, trailing it down to then follow the curve of his jaw up to his chin. “You’ll come to find…that we are the only ones who truly care for each other.”

\---

Barely six months passed, through which time Kristoph would admit he had grown daring, almost impatient in his desire to control Klavier. Even as the band’s rifts smoothed out, his grasp on its lead singer was already cemented through subtle hints and light reassurances; his brother would come at his beck and call, if he so desired. He had convinced Klavier that the world was out to get him, and the only safe haven was snug within Kristoph’s embrace.

One evening at his Los Angeles home, Kristoph had been pouring over the details of his latest case, one cup of tea keeping him up as the grandfather clock on the wall ticked past twelve-thirty. In the dead silence of the midnight, he heard the obnoxious but familiar gurgle of a motorcycle grow louder and louder up the street and towards his driveway, until the engine was finally cut. A few short moments, and what followed was the impatient knock-knock-knock on his front doors. A pleasant surprise.

Kristoph stood from his seat and tightened the silken rope of his night robe around his waist, before he descended downstairs into the entrance hall to open the door, and faced his brother: flushed, disheveled, and looking worse than he usually did after playing at a gig. Under Klavier’s black motorcycle coat, Kristoph could glimpse a rip in his shirt, which fit in well with his mussed-up hair, red eyes, and fists clenched tightly at his sides. He wouldn’t even look up at his older brother, preferring to glare at the unsuspecting red roses to the side of the door.

“Can I come in?” He murmured, unsuccessfully trying to scrub the hostility from his voice. Apparently the motorcycle ride had not been as long as it needed to be.

“Of course,” Kristoph stepped aside to let him in, shutting the door behind him once he did. He grabbed his coat off his shoulders, and hung it up in the coat closet as Klavier kicked his shoes off. “Do you just want a drink, or do you think you need something more restorative…?”

Klavier ran a hand through his hair and sighed, all the pent up tension suddenly disappearing now that he was away from the prying eyes in the world—his brother would never judge him. “I just need to lie down for a bit.”

Kristoph smiled (almost smirked), and gave him a little squeeze on the shoulder. “You know where the guest bedroom is; I’ll bring some wine up.”

As Kristoph brought his hand back down, Klavier stopped him, catching him about the forearm. “No, I’ve had enough alcohol tonight.”

Kristoph arched an eyebrow at his grip, desperately clutching at his arm. “Then what would you like me to do, Klavier?”

He still wouldn’t meet his brother’s eyes and now, hesitantly, he let go of his brother’s arm. He began to walk up the stairs. “I wanted to talk, but it’s late, we can do it tomorrow.”

Klavier barely noticed how fast his brother was at his side, one arm looped under his as with each step he found himself growing more and more weary. “I have time now,” Kristoph’s voice poured through his soul like a soothing shower, peeling away any mental walls of protection.

The guest room was not as rich as the master bedroom, but still very well furnished for the purposes it served. The bed was a California king, neatly made with white linens and a multitude of puffy pillows, adorned on either side by rosewood bedside cabinets. Two floor-to-ceiling windows, curtains pulled aside to reveal the moonlight and the backyard gardens, occupied the rest of the back wall, giving enough light to navigate without having to turn on the lamps. In this moonlight, Klavier and Kristoph crossed the scarlet-carpet floor to sit on the side of the bed.

It was only then that Klavier, in the reflection of the full-length mirror across from him, realized that he was wearing that disgraceful ripped shirt. He hated looking like some homeless ruffian next to his ever-refined, perfectly dressed brother, and hastily moved to take it off, and to discard it to the floor, revealing his toned, unblemished torso.

Kristoph posed the first question. “Is it over?” About whom and what he was talking about was obvious to the both of them.

The younger man shrugged, fiddling like he always did with one of his rings, this time the one over the middle finger. “It’s never really over. We’ll always go back. For the band, you know.”

Kristoph gently laid his hand on Klavier’s thigh, completely unthreatening, natural. “But will it be the same? Will it be what you want, from him?”

Klavier said nothing for the next few moments, looking down at the manicured hand on his thigh, and then finally glancing up to meet his brother’s even gaze. He was getting lost in those eyes, leaning closer without even realizing it—“No, but, Daryan, he—”

Their lips met, and Kristoph knew—by how Klavier yearned for more of that warmth, grasping at the cloth of his robe, shifting to face him without ever breaking their kiss—that he had created a void in his brother that could only be filled by him: an eternal darkness, an emptiness, that he could exaggerate or reduce to whatever size he needed so that Klavier was where he wanted him to be.

Kristoph grasped his brother by the shoulders, pushing him away slightly so he could look into his eyes; Klavier was already breathless. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He asked, as cool as ever, a complete opposite to his brother, whose trembling fingers grasped handfuls of his satin night robe.

“You said we’re the only ones who care for each other,” Klavier murmured, as he slid his hands down the satin cloth and tugged apart the knot at Kristoph’s waist, to reveal a chest so much like his own. “So it shouldn’t matter.”

It was all the permission Kristoph would ever need. He shrugged off his robe to join Klavier’s discarded shirt on the rug and leaned in for another heated kiss while gently pushing the other to lie on the soft mattress. As he moved his lips to bite at the soft skin of Klavier’s neck, he made quick work of his ridiculous chains and pants, sliding them lower and lower down his legs while his lips descended lower and lower—

Klavier could barely think through the haze of fading alcohol from earlier in the evening and the adrenaline rushing through his blood at this supposedly forbidden relationship, but now that he felt a warm mouth around his cock his mind was simple a jumble of colours and fleeting emotions. “Kris—!”

Kristoph had him right in the palm of his hand, could control his every gasp and thrust and arch of his back like a puppeteer controls a marionette. This control, this power, made him harder than the simple glory of the body before him, even more than the success of his ploys.

He came back up, though his hand continued to stroke him, to keep him on edge. Klavier didn’t even hear the drawer open-and-shut, didn’t even have his eyes open to wonder why Kristoph would have a bottle of massage oil in his guest bedroom; all he heard and focused on was the voice murmuring into his ear, his very soul, “Do you want me to fuck you, Klavier?”

His eyes shot open at these words, and he brought his hands up to twine in his brother’s blond hair, so he could press their foreheads together and feel each other’s hot breath on their lips, identical grey-blue eyes locked in a passionate search to make sense of all this (even though Kristoph had already made perfect sense of what was happening, what was going to happen)—“Do it,” He breathed.

The next thing Klavier would remember was the smooth, quick, claiming thrust (“Ah--!”), how he wrapped his arms around Kristoph’s neck and with each thrust how he felt closer to his brother than he had ever felt in his life. With each thrust, he was being stroked, bringing him right to the edge, lost in a vicious sea of his own emotions, until finally Kristoph halted with one last, long, smooth thrust into him. The world stilled for the shortest moment.

“Come, Klavier.”

The stillness shattered like glass.

“Kristoph--!” His voice into the high ceiling and the cold, empty house. But he hardly realized the chill of the world around him, warm and safe in his brother’s embrace.

Kristoph kissed him on the cheek and smirked in the light of victory.


End file.
